Intuition

They say that intuition is a journey that begins and ends with the self
that hunches are not mere imaginary friends but real, so real
that tides decide when to rise and when to fall, like the moon
which mysteriously hides
beneath its own skin of veneer and half-truths, that half-truths
will be half because we are blind and not children of the shining orb
which beckons us to its world, one
that you call nether world, confirming whispers
of your consecrated frame, and you sing hallowed be thy name.
Hallowed me! Hallowed you! Hallowed! Hallowed! Hallowed, this world!
And, in your blood smeared smile,
there is the stench of lies,
buried, unearthed, burned and collected to suit your whims, and your raised eyebrow
proves your superiority to your self,
while the world taunts you
as you fight the warrior's death, strong and quiet.

They say intuition is magic worn like a necklace to make us believe in the moon
and that, which is dark, is often an extension of our own
deceptions and vermilion,
drawn on the skulls beheaded in the name of truth.
But what are hunches then?
a note, an apology, a journey from point A to point Z?

Misunderstanding

You say you love me
and that you
trust, my
meanderings,
that this gypsy soul
is carefree
and wise.

You say I am a
child, a dreamer
who loses her way
only to find
the way back,
never once seeing
how little I have grown
and how much, lost.

Tell me now
have I changed
that you don't love me
or find me, a child?
Or, is it the way I speak
about my transgressions
in your invaded space?

Wine

Red
like ink,
my lips dried, red
in blood
dread the looming death
and beyond.

Black
like water,
a paradox
inevitable, unfathomable.
Black
soul
me.

Black
like
black
life
nose deep
in moments, black.